


In Which Dean Goes Exploring and Gets Into a Tight Place

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, The bunker plays matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In which I defile a childhood memory. I'm so sorry.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Which Dean Goes Exploring and Gets Into a Tight Place

**Author's Note:**

> In which I defile a childhood memory. I'm so sorry.

“I have to get Sam.”

If Dean lifts his head and twists it to the left, he can just make out Kevin chewing on the edge of his thumb nervously. “Don’t get Sam,” Dean says, impressed that his voice is still calm after the 40th repetition. 

Kevin’s brow wrinkles, eyebrows drawing together as he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Dean. You’re pretty stuck.”

Dean sighs and lets his upper body sink back down. Luckily his torso sticks out of the wall low enough that he can reach down and rest his weight on his hands. “Yes, Captain Obvious. I know.” In the past half hour they'd tried everything - pushing from behind and pulling from the front. Both actions just made the weird aperture close down more tightly over Dean’s body. Now it feels like someone’s wrapped a blood pressure cuff from his bottom rib to the top of his hipbones. His stomach is not happy about that. He totally should have stopped at one cheeseburger for lunch. He’s not even sure he could puke now, this thing is so tight.

Kevin sidles towards the door, avoiding eye contact with Dean the whole time. “No, Dean. I really - “ And he bolts out of the room. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean curses quietly. He is never, ever going to live this down. But seriously, what was he supposed to have done? A hole opens up in a previously solid wall, leading in a room Dean would have sworn couldn’t exist given the layout of the bunker - how could he not check it out? Should he have sent Kevin? And that door Kevin just strolled through after the wall tried to eat Dean? Not there when Dean’s head popped into the room. Fucking Magic Treehouse of a bunker. The Batcave probably never tried to eat Bruce Wayne. Probably.

He counts time passing by his breaths and his heartbeat, John’s lessons still serving him well after all these years. It takes five minutes before he can hear footsteps and voices; Kevin’s high pitched and slightly frantic, Sam’s deeper and sounding confused. He hears Sam ask, “Was there always a door here?,” and Dean closes his eyes and braces for impact, inhaling as deeply as he can given the circumstances.

Sam does not disappoint. He takes one step into the room and stops dead, not even swaying when Kevin runs into him with a loud ‘oof’. “Dean? Oh my...holy shit, Dean.” And the first hint of the laughter Dean so knew he was going to have to put up with is in his voice already. “What ... how ... what the fuck happened?”

Dean’s been wondering that himself. So far he’s only come up with one theory. “The room tried to eat me.”

Sam just blinks at Dean, brow furrowed, mouth opening soundlessly.

Dean sighs. “I was having lunch with Kevin, in this kinda of break room we’d found. Just, you know, hanging out.” 

“He was really enjoying his food,” Kevin interrupts. He puts his hand on Sam’s arm. “Like, really enjoying it.”

Sam bites his bottom lip, eyes sparkling. “Let me guess, cheeseburgers from Jerry’s?”

“And fries and a milkshake,” Kevin adds. Unnecessarily, in Dean’s eyes. “And two beers.”

“Kevin,” Dean growls. “Shut the fuck up.”

A combo laugh/snort forces its way out of Sam’s mouth. He tries to turn it into a cough. Dean scowls. Sam ignores him. “So I still don’t get what happened?”

Kevin opens his mouth to say god only knows what, and Dean cuts him off with a death glare and sharp chopping motion. “Wall opened up.”

Another snort from Sam. 

“I crawled in to see what was there.”

That gets an out-and-out laugh. “Of course you did.”

Dean barrels over Sam's laugh. “Wall closed. Any other questions?”

Sam looks like he has a million questions and can’t pick which one he wants to start with. He’s making the stupidest faces. Dean wishes he had a camera to capture them. Then he realizes what he must look like, half his body sticking out of the wall like some sort of hunting trophy, and he’s pretty damn glad he doesn’t have a camera.

Sam puts his hands on his hips, tilts his head, and open his eyes really wide. “Dean, rooms don’t eat people.” His voice is kindergarten-teacher calm.

“People eat people!” Kevin blurts out from somewhere behind Sam. Sam and Dean shoot him identical looks of disgust-laced confusion.

“But, seriously, Dean,” Sam continues, trying not to laugh, biting his lower lip, eyes sparkling. “Eating you? C’mon.”

Maybe it’s the blood flowing to his head or the pressure on his stomach but Dean doesn’t see the humor in it. “I don’t know, Sam. If we can have a fucking magic computer and the Wicked Witch of the West in a bottle on a fucking shelf, then I don’t see what’s so unbelievable about a room that wants to EAT ME!”

By the end of his tirade, Sam is laughing so hard he almost can’t breathe. Dean’s actually starting to get concerned about the color of Sam’s face. Sam’s still not 100%, this can’t be good for his heart. “Sam! Sam, cut it out, man!” He looks around as best he can, can see Kevin’s feet. “Kevin, make him stop!” Sam’s laughs have turned to sobbing gasps and tears are spilling from his eyes. “Slap him or something. He’s getting hysterical!”

All wide-eyed, looking like the teenager he still is, Kevin inches over to where Sam squats back on his heels, arms wrapped around his stomach. There’s no sound now. Sam’s silent, just the shaking of his shoulders and the occasional wheezing inhale to show that he's still laughing. Darting nervous looks to Dean, because even on his knees Sam still comes up to Kevin’s chest, Kevin turns sideways and sidles closer, hand out, palm up.

“Christ, Kevin, he’s not a wild dog. Just ...just haul back and belt him. Because that’s what I would do if I could get out of this fucking hole!” That last part is yelled in Sam’s direction. “It’s not that fucking funny, Sam!”

Sam just lifts his tear-streaked face and looks at Dean with this amazing smile and fucking Grand Canyon-deep dimples and laugh lines and this incredible bone-deep love in his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Yeah, it kinda is.” 

And now Dean is the one who can’t breathe. 

Kevin’s punch comes out of nowhere and knocks Sam off his heels and down on his ass. He sits there, mouth open and closing like a fish out of water, long legs spread out in front of him. It’s hard to tell who is more surprised, him or Kevin. 

Everybody is so wide-eyed, it’s like an anime convention in there now. Dean opens his mouth to say something snarky and all that happens is he sucks in a huge lungful of air. He exhales, and it whines out of him like a boiling teakettle. He drops his head to his hands and laughs until tears run down his cheeks and his temples pound with the force of the blood rushing to his brain. 

Sammy crawls across the floor to sit next to him. He’s gasping and laughing, and Dean feels Sam’s huge strong hand running through his hair and petting down his neck and between his shoulder blades. Gulping in air, Dean manages to get himself under control, and then it’s just he and Sam sitting there, breathing together. Dean hears the door slam, the door that was never fucking there before. Exhibiting hard-earned battle-trained wisdom, Kevin must have made a run for it while Sam was distracted. Dean groans and drops his head again.

Sam’s hand moves to his neck, rubbing the muscles there. “Sore?” he asks, tilting his head down to see Dean’s face.

“A little,” Dean admits, rolling his head around on his neck. “Feels good.” 

Sam stretches across so he can reach both of Dean’s shoulders. "So, um,” Sam clears his throat and Dean turns to glare at him. Sam’s eyes are wide and innocent, but he’s biting his lip to hold back the smile. 

“Don’t even start,” Dean warns.

Sam tries again. “How, uh, how long have you been stuck in there?”

“About a half an hour,” Dean admits.

Sam’s eyebrows slide up into his hairline.

Dean sighs, “Okay, okay. Kevin and I tried, alright? Now just get me out.” His voice is a gruff bark.

Sam gets up on his knees, hand still soft on Dean’s back like he’s calming a nervous animal. “Yeah, okay. Does it hurt?’” He shuffles closer to where Dean’s body is trapped in the wall. He slips his fingers down, trying to get between the opening and Dean. No go. Dean knows how the wall feels. Feels like rubber. Look likes plaster though.

Dean's knees are on the floor back in the other room, but they’re bent kind of awkwardly and it's really starting to get uncomfortable. And he’s starting to really need to pee. Probably shouldn’t have had that second beer. Dean bends down lower, stretching out his back. The movement makes his shirts ride up, the plaid overshirt slipping half-way up his head. With a muffled grunt of annoyance he lifts himself up, grabs the shirt collar and strips it over his head. It pulls his t-shirt halfway up his back, but at least he can see. 

Sam coughs self-consciously. Dean puts one hand on the ground and tries to twist far enough around to see his brother. Sam's skin is flushing red. If he starts laughing again, Dean is going to pull himself out of this thing with the power of his mind and smack the crap out of his brother. “What?” he snaps at the side of Sam’s head. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam turns back to his contemplation of the wall/Dean join. “It’s just, uh, nice core strength.”

Dean preens a little inside at that, smiles where Sam can’t see him. “Well, Sam, just because we don’t all look like walking Men’s Fitness centerfolds, doesn’t mean we’re out of shape.”

“No, definitely not.” He tugs hesitantly at Dean’s shirt, like he’s trying to pull it back up, but Dean’s had enough of staying up and gravity pulls the shirt down as he rests on his elbows.

“Huh,” Sam says as Dean drops down.

“What?” Dean’s concentrating on stretching his legs out on the other side of the wall, straightening one then the other. 

“I think...” 

Dean startles at the feel of Sam’s warm fingers at the waistband of his jeans. Just one finger, tracing back and forth across the edge. Goose bumps rise up where it passes. Dean’s “Sam?” sounds a little tense even to him.

“Hmm?” Sam hums. 

He seems distracted, kneeling down next to Dean. The palm of his hand is warm, the size of a dinner plate, and sliding down through the dip of Dean’s spine and into his jeans. _Holy crap._ Not a good day for Dean to be wearing this old pair. They’re so tight, Sam has to push to get under them. Dean sucks in a lungful of air that somehow gets trapped in his throat. He arches as much as he can, trying to get away from Sam's hand, but there's nowhere to go. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Sam urges as Dean sucks his gut in. “Just a little, uh, more,” Sam breathes as he shoves a second hand in. Dean’s eyes roll back into his head at the feel of it. Sam’s hands span Dean’s hips, fingers spread across his lower back, and Sam might be saying something but Dean can’t hear ot over the pounding of the blood in his ears, can’t focus past the throbbing of blood in his dick. 

“Jesus Christ, Sammy!” He can’t help it, he arches back up, twisting. Sam’s fingers dig into the flesh right above his ass cheeks.

“Stop it.” Sam bites out the order and Dean stops. His arms are trembling now from the strain of holding himself up. Yeah. It's totally the strain. He feels Sam’s fingers sliding across his skin. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “I think this might work.”

Dean focuses on getting his breath under control. Water is wet, pie is good, and Sam is hotter than the sun. It's just a given. Wanting Sam has been a constant in Dean's life since Sam hit about fourteen, but usually it’s kind of a low, background burn; something he lets his mind drift to when he’s feeling relaxed and Sam looks happy. Sam caressing his ass is just not fair. How can he be expected to repress and deny with that shit going on? But he tries. “What might work?” he asks.

Sam lifts his wrists up, pushing the back of his hands against the aperture. He can't move very far, but Dean can feel a little woosh of air down his jeans. Goddamn, he picked a bad day to go commando. 

“I think if I push up against the opening, and you kind of slide out of your jeans while I hold them here, we can get you out of this. Try it a little.” Sam’s arms dig in deeper until this the palms of his hands curve over Dean’s ass, the back of his hand and wrists pushing up against the denim. 

Dean shakes his head, then drops his body down as far as he can. “Fuck, Sammy.” His breathing is nowhere near controlled now.

“Picked a good day to go commando, Dean.” Sam’s voice cracks and his fingers press briefly into the meat of Dean's ass. “Now just try, try to wiggle a little,” he chuckles.

Sam’s laugh is dark, and it does things to Dean he doesn’t need done to him right now. His dick is really interested, and it’s getting kind of painful, trapped between his thigh and the denim. But Dean tries. He braces his feet against the floor and pushes. Sam holds his jeans up away from his skin, his arms pushing against the opening like he’s trying to stretch it out. His skin slides against Sam’s. _Fucking-A_ , it works. He moves forward a few inches. “Son of a bitch. Nice work.” He’s got a bit of a plumber’s crack going on now, and his jeans are bunched uncomfortably at his hips. But that’s not the real issue. The real issue is the erection that doesn’t seem to want to go down. And probably won’t as long as Sam has his hands on Dean’s freaking ass.

Despite the success of his plan, Sam is suspiciously silent. Except for their breathing, everything is silent. Dean can feel the weight of the earth over them, the staleness of the air in this long-unused room. It’s getting awkward. A really big reason for that is the way Sam’s hands are just kind of...roaming...up and down Dean’s back and ass and hips. They make the opening the slightest bit larger every time they brush the strange walls. 

Sam’s side presses against Dean’s ribs, his arms a warm weight on Dean’s back as he reaches deeper into the opening. And he’s just not stopping. Sam’s breath ghosts across the exposed skin of his back. Dean draws in a shaky breath as Sam’s hands move lower and around inside of Deans jeans until his fingers brush Dean’s hipbones. When those strong fingers clench around the bones, fingertips indenting the soft muscle, palms pressing hard against the the jut of bone, Dean curses. “Jesus, fuck, Sam,” he forces out through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam blurts, but he doesn’t let go. 

“Sam,” Dean says at the same time Sam says, “Shoes.” 

Dear cranes his neck around to try and get Sam to look at him. He can’t decipher Sam as well without seeing his face. “Sam, come on.” There’s a desperation in his voice that even he can hear.

Sam just slides his fingers into the groove of Dean’s hips. “Dean,” his voice cracks. Dean hopes he doesn’t start coughing up blood. “Do you..did you ever think about...” His voice trails off, but from the way his hands start wandering again, sliding further and further under his hips, Dean has a good idea what Sam is thinking about.

Dean lifts his hip mindlessly, then groans and drops back down to his forearms. “Sammy, man, you have spectacularly bad timing. I’m not saying stop, not saying no, just saying get me the fuck out of here so we can talk. Or so I can get my hands on you. Either fucking one but do it now.”

“Shoes, Dean,” Sam says. “Shoes,” he repeats like it’s the only word he knows. He shoves at Dean’s jeans.

Dean finally gets the message and kicks his shoes off into the room behind him. 

Sam slides his hands in as far as he can reach and presses hard against the opening. “Now,” he orders. 

Dean gives a mighty heave and pulls himself, _sans_ jeans, into the new room. Sammy yanks his hands out, and the wall snaps closed.

Dean’s jeans hang from the wall like some odd piece of modern art, and he’s almost butt-naked on the floor at Sam’s feet. T-shirt and socks are never a good look at the best of times, which this is most assuredly not. Luckily, his erection is rapidly flagging. The erection he got from his brother’s hands on his ass.

It could be possibly the most awkward moment of his life. What was the probability of a hole opening up in the _floor_ this time? That would be useful. Then Sam drops to his knees on the floor next to him and reaches for Dean, and Dean stops worrying.

Sam’s hand is fisted in the front of Dean’s t-shirt and he’s looking down at Dean through a curtain of hair with a combination of lust and laughter. Dean can’t tell which one is causing Sam to bite his lower lip, but he appreciates whichever one it is. “So,” Sam asks conversationally, even as his hand slots back over Dean’s hip like it was built solely for him. “You want to talk?”

Dean grabs his stupidly large brother’s shoulders and pulls him down. “Not particularly.”

Sam swings his leg over Dean, straddling his brother on his hands and knees. The denim of his jeans is rough against Dean’s skin. Dean reaches under Sam’s t-shirt and glides his hands across the dips and rises of bone and muscle and skin. Sam’s body is the same one he’d fallen into the Pit with. No re-hymenation for him. Dean reads the history of violence on his skin. His fingers trace the puckered scar in the middle of Sam’s back; even after all these years, he can barely stand to look at it. He puts his hand flat against the scar and pushes down, closing his eyes and turning his head away as if he can somehow make the scars and the memories go away.

“Hey,” Sam says, rough and low. He slips his fingers under Dean’s cheek and turn his head back. Their faces are so close, all Dean can see is Sam’s amazing eyes. _Heterochromia_ Dean remembers how excited Sammy had been to learn the word for his multicolored irises. Dean had thought then that _beautiful_ covered it. He still thinks so. 

Sam’s eyes are closing and he’s leaning down to kiss Dean. 

If Dean had imagined kissing Sam - and oddly enough he hadn’t really. His fantasies went right to blow jobs and bending Sam over various piece of furniture. But if he had, he would have thought it would be odd, hesitant. Maybe awkward and tentative. He would have been so wrong.

It might have been meant to be comforting, sweet, but as soon as Sam’s mouth presses against his, Sam groans like he's in pain. He drops down onto his elbows and just goes for it, his hand holding Dean’s head in place.

Dean had seen soulless Sam with women a couple of time - besides the soul, Sam had also lacked any concept of personal space. Dean had assumed that the he-man stuff was a side-effect of the whole lack of a soul thing. Apparently not. Dean has no complaints. He buries his hands in Sam’s hair and gives as good as he’s getting.

Sam’s the first one to break, pulling off with a gasp and resting his head against Dean’s shoulder. “Fuck, Dean. Your mouth...” he trails off, shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. His chest heaves. He darts down, biting Dean’s lower lip, and soothing over it again with his tongue. “Your fucking mouth.”

Dean can’t help the smug expression on his face. _Oh yeah,_ he’s still got it. “Yeah, Sammy? You like it? Been thinking about it?”

Sam drops his weight down onto Dean’s cock, which has taken a renewed interest in the situation. “Been thinking about a lot of things, _Dean_.” He stretches out over Dean’s body, mouth against Dean’s ear. “For a long time.” He bites Dean hard on the neck, right under his jaw. 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to groan. His hips push up against Sam’s weight, friction from the jeans bordering on painful.

Sam pulls away, touches the red mark on Dean’s neck. Dean can’t stop the shiver that touch brings, and now Sam is the smug one. “Tell me you never thought about it.” He sits back on his legs, ass pressing hard into Dean.

Dean can’t even pretend. He moves his hands up Sam’s thighs, sliding in to cup the erection straining against the jeans. Sam inhales through his teeth. “You’re a little overdressed, don’t you think?” Dean asks.

Sam laughs silently, mouth open, eyes smiling. He looks like a husky, Dean thinks. “Should I be rocking the t-shirt and socks look like you?”

Dean pushes up on his elbows. “You wish you could look this good.”

Sam strips off his shirts. Dean’s eyes check out every inch of Sam, taking it all in now that he is allowed to look. Sam looks good. Really good. Still too many clothes, though. Even as he’s reaching to pull open Sam’s belt, he is struck by the surrealness of what they're doing. The way arousal and embarrassment take turns sending blood to different parts of his body leaves him dizzy and hard. 

Sam grabs the buckle out of Dean’s hands and slides his belt slowly out of the loops. “Shirt off,” he orders. He lifts up, kneeling and starts to unbutton his jeans.

Dean’s body settles on arousal. He lays down and pulls his t-shirt over his head. The floor is not the most comfortable place and his mind drifts to his memory-foam mattress as he watches Sam step out of his jeans. From this angle, Sam looks endless. And his dick looks enormous. Dean’s mouth waters, and he pushes himself up on his elbows. _Change of plans._

He reaches out a hand to Sam. Sam grabs it, hauling Dean up like he has a million times before, nothing new. The way Dean shoves into his personal space isn’t new either. The way their cocks feel pushed against each other, and the realization that Sam’s ass fits right into the palms of Dean’s hand? All wonderfully new. 

As Dean walks Sam backwards, Sam grabs Dean’s head, tipping it back and bending down to get his mouth on Dean. Dean loves a man who can multitask. Sam is sucking and biting at Dean’s neck; sharp bites that hurt and make Dean’s cock jerk with the pain. Sam’s back hits the wall. _Finally_ , Dean thinks, grinding hard and dirty against his brother like he’s wanted to for so long. The way their bodies fit together makes Dean realize why what they’re doing is taboo in almost every time and place. If anything could turn a person’s contemplation from the holy to the profane, doing this, crossing that line with the person who knows you better and longer than anyone else ever could, would be it.

Dean twines his fingers through Sam’s hair and yanks his head off his neck, dragging their mouths back together. Sam kisses like he wants to crawl inside Dean, like he wants to suck Dean’s soul out of his mouth. One hand is pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades, keeping them pressed together. The other wraps around Dean’s thigh and tugs his leg up, dragging Dean onto his tiptoes. Their cocks stick and slip against each other as the space between them gets hotter and wetter. 

Dean swears he can feel Sam’s cock pressing into him from his crotch to his ribs, and he really, really can’t help wondering how it would feel pressing against him from the inside. The shudder that runs down his body almost turns into an orgasm. Sammy is groaning and panting against him, cock pulsing where it’s trapped between them. Dean wrenches away from Sam, hands pressed into Sam’s chest. 

“Dean,” Sam moans. 

“Hold on to something,” Dean orders, dropping to his knees. 

Sam’s hand clench on Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging in so hard Dean knows he’ll have bruises there to match the bite marks. Perfect. Dean wraps his hand out Sam’s really quite impressive erection and pulls it away from his body. He rests the head on his lips as he looks up at Sam through his lashes. 

Sam’s eyes are black with lust, his lips red-bitten swollen. Dean knows what he looks like on his knees, what effect it has. And Sam knows Dean knows. Sam laughs breathlessly even as his cock jerks and thickens in Dean’s hand. “You fucker,” he curses, eyes crinkling with humor. 

Dean runs his mouth over the head of Sam’s cock, teasing. Feels amazing. Tastes even better. He groans around it. Sam bangs his head softly against the wall, a string of curses falling from his mouth into Dean’s ears. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean. God.” 

Dean opens up and slides down as far as he can on Sam's dick. When Sam bumps against the back of his throat, he swallows around it and Sam punches the wall. Coughing, Dean backs off. Before he can pull completely off, Sam grabs the back of his head, holding him in place. 

“Stop teasing,” Sam growls. 

Dean’s cock jumps in response to both the hand and the growling. He looks up at Sam, mouth stretched around Sam’s cock, eyes wide in surprise. Sam tightens his grip and starts fucking Dean’s face, slowly but deliberately. All Dean can do it hold on and try to remember how to breathe and do this at the same time. 

The filth dropping from Sam’s mouth has Dean worried for the state of Sam’s soul. He tells Dean all the things he’s wanted to do to Dean over the years. All the times he jerked off after stitching Dean up. The times he rolled over and came in his pants after Dean pinned him while they were wrestling. He’s panting, words coming out between moans. “So fucking hot. Dean. Your fucking mouth.” 

Sam’s thrusts are speeding up and getting desperate. Dean’s dick feels like it’s going to explode, and if he could just get a hand around it, he'd come in a second. But Sam's pushing into him so hard, he has to hold on or get knocked over. It's fucking perfect. His blunt nails dig into the soft skin at the top of Sam’s ass. 

“Wanna fuck you,” Sam groans. “Please, Dean. God. Can I? _Shit_.” 

Dean can only moan as Sam pushes in hard and deep. When the first splash of Sam’s release hits the back of his throat, Dean’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. He spasms, muscles locking up. Sam’s giant cock is blocking his throat, he can't get any air and it feels so fucking amazing Dean makes peace with his imminent death and thanks God that he gets to die feeling good for once. 

Sam’s knees give out, and his dick drags across Dean’s lips as he slithers to the ground. Dean collapses against him, shuddering and coming. 

Their harsh breathing is the only sound in the room as they drift in and out of sleep. At first, Dean thinks the thumping sound is his heart, or Sam’s heart, or perhaps both at the same time. Eventually, it resolves into someone pounding at the door and calling their names. 

“Sam? Dean?” Kevin calls from the other side. “You guys okay? Do you need help?” 

Dean tries to answer, but his throat is wrecked. He scrambles away from Sam as the door handle starts to turn. 

“No!” Sam shouts. “No. We’re...we’re good. We’re good.” He looks at Dean, looks at the door and shrugs helplessly. _What should he say?_

Dean shakes his head, _Don’t ask me, dude._ Still on his knees, he starts dragging their clothes together. He tosses Sam’s jeans to him. 

“Don’t...don’t come in” Sam yells, struggling to his feet. The door handle turns further. “Don’t!" Sam repeats. He trips trying to get into his jeans. Dean laughs, and Sam shoots him a look that’s far too murderous for someone who just got his brains sucked out through his dick. 

The handle turns back. “Oookay,” Kevin says through the door. “Whatever.” 

Dean decides staying on the floor is his best bet. Sam crosses the floor to stand over him, legs bracketing his hips. “Just going to lay there?” 

Dean gestures at where his jeans sag sadly from the wall. “Room ate my pants.” 

Sam crooks an eyebrow. He walks over to the wall and pounds on it. “Pants, please.” 

Dean’s jaw drops as the hole in the wall opens and Sam slips the jeans free. The hole closes with a snap, disappearing like it never existed. “What the fuck, dude?” Dean says, reaching for his pants. 

Sam shrugs. “I can’t help it if the bunker likes me better.” 

Dean takes the hand Sam’s offering and struggles to his feet. His legs still feel amazingly wobbly. _Awesome._ “Whatever,” he says, echoing Kevin. They finish dressing. There’s a brief microsecond that could become awkward until Dean reaches up and cups the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him in for a short, sweet kiss. Sam relaxes against him. “Shower?” 

Sam nods. “Definitely.” 

Sam opens the door, and Dean follows him into the hall. They walk in silence for a second. “So, ah, just to be clear,” Dean says. “You know that was a yes, right? For the, uh, fucking. A, uh, very enthusiastic yes.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah.” He walks just a little faster, and Dean has to almost jog to keep up. _Damn stork legs._

“Keep up. I’ve got plans for you,” Sam reaches back and takes Dean’s hand. 

Dean is so on board with that. When they stop at Sam’s room to grab his robe, Dean lays a hand against the nearest wall and pats it. “Thanks, man,” he whispers. After all, given how things turned out, he thinks Sam’s wrong. The bunker totally likes him best.


End file.
